Real thoughts of a confession-going sinner

It almost always happens, without fail. There I am, waiting in line for the confessional, and my mind starts to wander.

Usually, “line” is a loose term. Often, you’ll find would-be penitents scattered in a general section of the church, each in their own pew, as they wait their turn to see the priest. Sometimes, a mother will be trying to corral squirmy kids. A sullen teenager might be sitting awkwardly off by himself, sweating it out. Elderly parishioners might be praying the rosary as they wait; others might be chatting with friends.

Figuring out my place in this mad jumble of penitents, thus, is my first task.

While the line might not seem obvious, it is there. There’s a certain protocol to confession, and there’s no need to add “line cutter” to the list of sins I’m about to confess.

The thing about confession, though, is whether it’s your first time in 30 years or your 30th time this year, everyone is nervous. No one likes the idea of chatting up Father about all the bad things we’ve done since the last time we exchanged pleasantries — and this sometimes leads to bad lines. Maybe the teenager hopes no one notices as his turn comes and goes. Perhaps the mother is hoping to go quickly, because Junior has soccer practice in an hour. Maybe Junior runs off, and she has to chase him down.

As Tom Petty once wisely said about confession — or, something else, I don’t really remember — “the waiting is the hardest part.”

There are many ways for things to go off the rails early, and often, it does. Someone will take too long. Someone else will go too quickly. Someone will cut. Someone else won’t take their turn. A child will cry. The organist will start practicing. Distractions will happen. Prayer, in these moments, can be difficult, if not impossible.

It makes sense, when you think about it. We’re all human, after all. Confession is messy, because life is messy. As we wait our turn, we quietly rehearse our laundry list to ourselves, fretting over what Father might think of us.

Fortunately, the waiting really is the hardest part of confession. Father, believe it or not, has been on both sides of the curtain, and he’s no stranger to the adrenaline of the moment. He’s heard everything — and he’s probably confessed a lot of it himself, too. Despite what we repeatedly tell ourselves, he isn’t going to judge us, because he’s not a judge. He’s a repentant sinner, like us.

Recently, Pope Francis encouraged priests around the globe to be “missionaries of mercy” in the confessional, helping men and women turn back to God without fear. In my experience, while the pope’s words are laudable, they’re not really necessary. As someone who’s been to confession my fair share of times — some might say more than my fair share — I’ve never once felt judged or chastised, despite my never-failing anxiety.

More often, my reaction upon exiting the confessional lies somewhere between relief and surprise — relief at how easy this all turned out to be, and surprise at how, after all of those sins, Father only gave me three Hail Marys and one Our Father.